


Obsession Protocols

by intergalacticju



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 03:39:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intergalacticju/pseuds/intergalacticju
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To be obsessed with him is to be obsessed with insanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obsession Protocols

**Author's Note:**

> First work in this particular fandom, and it has no discernible plot! Awhoo!

He doesn’t hear the footsteps, which should be disconcerting but isn’t. He’s used to the sound of them, the gait of long strides and careful footfalls, but this moment is not a time to reflect on them. Long ago they were posed as “un-threatening”, and pushed into the back of his mind when the front was otherwise preoccupied. There was no fear, then, when a hand much larger than his own gently slid over his, palm cupping the white knuckles working against the muscles and frame. Another one slid around his stomach, docile and assured, still not triggering any warnings in that computer-like brain. Even when a head rested itself upon his shoulder he continued; it would not hinder him from the work.

Tony Stark doesn’t know how long he’s been awake, and he doesn’t care. There were times before when this would call attention to the team, JARVIS, Pepper; when intervention seemed as important then as it did when he was living out of one of many liquor cabinets. Now, it seems, there was no urgency. His hands are still powerful tools, working as they were made to, forever continuing the act of creation. The machines call to him, need him more, and their buzz and chatter fill his head where JARVIS and AC/DC can’t. There is no time here, only empty cups of coffee and the exhaustion of his body held taut by unhealthy levels of caffeine.

“Hey.” Steve’s soft voice cuts through the chatter, bearing no urgency. It was a small word, laced with sleep and fondness, but he can’t bear to use it as a lure away. He looks down as a thumb rubs over his own, and he reflects how unobtrusive it is before he realises that the din of chatter has died down considerably. All that’s left is a low thrum, his body practically vibrating with it. His hands start to relax around the grip of his tools.

“You’ve been down here a long time.” It’s still as soft as it ever was, bearing no accusatory tone, but there is sadness there. He’d reply if it wasn’t redundant; instead, he cocks his head until he is brushing up against Steve’s, brows furrowed as he stares at his workbench. “What are you making?” Steve asks, apparently finding his inch and taking it. Through the haze of forever-movement and his brain running constantly in the background, it’s only now that he notices that he doesn’t know.

“Not sure,” Tony finally replies, the chatter gone now and leaving him to the silence of the room. He drops the tools on the bench and gives out a small groan, permitting Steve to tighten his grip infinitesimally as he leans into it. “It’s a thing, though,” he mumbles, clearly not done talking now that he’s going. An upward quirk of his lips spreads wider, because Steve is grinning lazily and he knows this without seeing it. He is the only person Tony knows who can smile with his whole body, and who does that? “It’s a thing that does stuff. I’ll figure it out.”

There is a line of dialogue here that isn’t said out loud. Steve is still holding on to him, protective and resting and tired, and Tony lets him, because he’s been pulled from the mainframe and he doesn’t have the need to fight it. Time still won’t exist for him, because he has too much money and too much skill to let it. There are things Steve wants to say that he doesn’t, and there are retorts Tony wants to quip back that he can’t. So they stand there, staring at the workbench and staring at nothing, the caffeine wires of Tony’s blood running slack as he leans more and more into those stronger arms. He doesn’t fear landing on his ass on the workshop floor because he knows Steve would never allow it.

“It’s stupid to be jealous of them.” Steve whispers against his ear, like it’s a horrible secret, like he doesn’t mean to actually say it out loud. Once said he doesn’t take it back, merely hesitates as he looks across the workshop. Tony knows who “them” is, and follows Steve’s gaze without prompt. Even in this day and age, his toys and gadgets and inorganic friends are mind-boggling, should warrant jealousy and awe. To Steve, as much as he’s adapted to Tony’s world, well. It must be increased tenfold. His eyes settle on the wall of Iron Man armour, put on display and waiting for him, glinting in artificial light. “I love them,” Steve reiterates, because he knows Tony knows what he means, too, and he emphasises this with a careful press of his lips to Tony’s jaw. “I just want to be the one you think about like that.”

 Tony grins to hide the sad smirk, shifting in Steve’s grip and sliding his calloused hand over the arm looped around his middle. They both know Tony isn’t going to stop, can’t stop, because it’s the only programming parameters of his brain that are permanent. His mind is a computer that doesn’t know when to quit, and telling him to cease creating is like telling Dummy to be a stand-up comic. Impossible isn’t a word Tony knows, but he’s sure he can get pretty close, and there are some things he just simply won’t do.

“Getting a little obsessive, aren’t we Cap?” It’s sadder than it should be, but his smile continues to linger. To be obsessed with him is to be obsessed with insanity. There is way too much to make up for and not enough time in his life to accomplish it. That he has friends at all, ones that he didn’t build, is nothing short of miraculous, and had he any selflessness in him he would have driven them away long ago. But he _is_ selfish and he’s going to continue this life until he burns to the ground, and if Steve burns up with him, well then, maybe there is a God. Until then he will avoid all the mirrors while he can and keep sliding back to the bottle as long as no one’s looking.

His thoughts are interrupted by another soft press of lips to his ear, a slow but careful “Stop,” demanding that he listen. A repeated kiss as Tony thinks back, and no, he didn’t say any of that out loud, but Steve knew where his processes were going anyway. He hums thoughtfully, letting Steve trail down his neck, his eyes fluttering shut. The darkness behind his lids is like relief, and he’s reminded again how much he needs a shut down.

“Aren’t _you_?” He’s asked through the dark, pulled back to the previous question, and he knows how Steve watches him, knows how Tony eyes him for too long both on and off the battlefield, how he looks at him like he’s hungry. How he subtly glares behind his sunglasses at anyone who gives Steve the same looks, and the inexplicable feeling that crawls in his gut at the thought of Steve giving them back. The shield, like an extension of Captain America’s arm, and how he loves it like he knows Steve loves the armour.

They’re walking backwards through the shop slowly, and Tony wrenches his eyes open against his better judgement, shifting in the grip to turn around. The arc reactor presses into Steve’s chest as he snakes his arms loosely around his back, quirking his lips knowingly and planting a kiss, pliant and tired and emphatic.

“Oh, I definitely am.”


End file.
